


may death find you alive

by phae



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, M/M, Shorts within a Verse, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 17:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4886170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is a vampire. Clint is not. Yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just a Sip

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from _Uma Thurman_ by Fall Out Boy.
> 
> These are short stories all set within the same verse where Phil is a vampire and the boys have no affiliation with SHIELD or the Avengers.

Clint’s seen so many urban legends debunked by the people working the freak show that traveled around with the circus, he’s become too comfortable with the idea that he knows all about the real (and all too human) monsters lurking in the shadows. But given the extended fangs he’d just seen flashing in the flickering streetlight as they grew out of (what he thought were) human gums, which are now sunk deep into the vein pulsing in his neck, he’s going to have to at least rethink his position on the existence of vampires.

 

(Fucking _vampires_ , though. Who, apparently, fall more in line with Anne Rice’s depictions rather than modern teen-fiction-turned-blockbusters, but that’s hardly surprising. Why the hell would a vampire damn well _sparkle_?)

 

But yeah, so there’s a literal bloodsucker drinking the life right out of him, and Clint’s too dumbfounded by the fact that it’s a real-live vampire (and not a reasonably attractive tax accountant, like Clint first thought. Or maybe he is? Do vampires work nine-to-fives?) to really focus on the fact that he’s dying. Being murdered, actually, but then it’s a bit like hunting deer, isn’t it? Except he’s the deer and the vamp is the, well, he’s clearly not _human_ , so he’s just a hunter. Of humans.

 

Clint's more than a little surprised when the vampire’s bite abruptly relaxes, and his mouth moves away with delicate licks over the muscles of Clint’s neck, lapping up the blood that’s trailing down to pool in the collar of Clint’s shirt.

 

Clint’s legs feel like jell-o, all wobbly and like they’re going to slide out from under him, and he’s not sure if that’s from the bloodloss or the shock. Both are pretty heavy contenders. He only stays upright because the vampire’s arms are looped around Clint’s waist, keeping him flush against the vampire’s (non-breathing, it’s like being pressed up against a corpse, which he kind of is?) chest.

 

Clint’s vision swims for a startling few seconds, dim around the edges, but a tight grip on his chin has him blinking back to awareness and zeroing in on the concerned frown pulling down the vampire’s lips, smeared as they are with glistening blood ( _his_ blood) and slick saliva.

 

“I thought so,” the vampire grumbles to himself. Then, sharply, he asks, “When was the last time you ate a decent meal?”

 

Clint gapes and croaks out, “Huh?”

 

“I need more detailed information on your diet,” he explains slowly, tilting Clint’s head to and fro, then pulling the loose skin under his eyes down with a finger and leaning in to examine them. A ring of red circles the vampire’s blue irises, and when they accidentally end up staring into each other’s eyes, Clint feels a chill rack down his spine. “Obviously, you aren’t ingesting near enough iron, and given the way your skin pulls too tightly over your muscles, you burn far more calories than you consume daily.”

 

“Is this what hallucinatin’s like?” Clint mumbles, mostly to himself. “‘Cause I always figured it’d be more flying fish and rainbow unicorns.”

 

The vampire raps a boney knuckle against Clint’s temple. “I need you to concentrate and answer my question. What was the last thing you ate? And when was that?”

 

“I had some Mickey D’s for lunch?” Clint answers uncertainly, trying to think back some 10 hours ago to recall if he’d even gotten more than some fries.

 

“Unacceptable,” the vampire snaps. He pulls the handkerchief from the front pocket of his suit out with a sharp movement and dabs first at Clint’s neck and then his own mouth before stuffing it inside his jacket. When he pivots suddenly, Clint ends up pressed along his side as one arm keeps a hold of him, palm enclosed over the jut of his hip. The vampire strides forward, out of the alley, dragging Clint with him.

 

“Dude, what the hell!” Clint exclaims. He tries to twist away, but vampires really are exceptionally strong, it seems.

 

“Walk,” the vampire orders, and for some reason, Clint’s brain suddenly decides that that sounds like an excellent idea.

 

Looking around in hazy befuddlement as they pass through the dodgy end of the city and into the well-lit main strip, Clint mutters, “What’s happening here?”

 

“I’m treating you to a full, balanced meal,” the vampire answers simply. “You’re welcome.”

 

Clint turns to scan his gaze down the vampire’s profile and wonders aloud, “Is this a date?”

 

Without pausing, the vampire’s attention darts over to Clint, his steps still confident as he dodges gracefully around the oncoming crowd. His mouth curls into a smirk, and the deep red of Clint’s blood, still clinging to the inside of his lips, is a stark contrast against the bright white of his teeth. “Well, it is now.”

 


	2. Winning the Battle and Losing the War

Clint runs because he’s already ten minutes late to meet Phil (who wants to take him to a _museum exhibit_. And he emphasizes that not in scorn, but in awe. No one’s ever thought he was good enough–-smart enough–-to invite him on a trip to the museum before). So he’s out of breath when he finally comes to a stop in front of Phil at the subway entrance and can’t manage more than a shaky wave as he wheezes, the too-deep breaths rattling his bruised ribs.

 

The quiet smile Clint’s gotten so used to being greeted with when it comes to Phil had been dropping the closer Clint got, until it’s now morphed into a frown that can’t decide if it’d rather be concerned or aggravated. Not good.

 

“What happened?” Phil demands.

 

“Huh?” Clint pants. “Nothing. Just lost track'a time, you know.”

 

Phil’s eyes narrow-–not quite a glare, but definitely assessing. “You’re hurt.”

 

Clint pulls up his best approximation of an incredulous expression. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Do not even try to talk your way out of this.” Phil stalks towards him, something about the tilt of his head giving the impression that he’s looming over Clint even though their height only ever differs depending on their shoes. “I can smell the blood on you, and not all of it is yours.”

 

Brought up short, Clint asks, “Blood doesn’t all smell the same? Is that like a blood type thing?” It’s an honest question (there’s a big gap in his knowledge of all things supernatural, after all, and it’d be stupid to waste a resource like Phil’s immortal mind) but thinking about it after he’s said it, it’s not a half-bad way to jerk the conversation off track either.

 

Except Phil’s not in the mood to indulge him in his rambling tangents today. “ _What happened_?”

 

“It was nothing, really.” Clint shrugs, then immediately regrets it as the movement jars his shoulder, which just might be dislocated. “Just your run-of-the-mill fight. Okay?”

 

“No, it’s not okay. Who attacked you?”

 

“No one!” Clint exclaims. Phil’s lips pull back in a snarl, and it’s kind of a terrifying expression given the way it draws attention to the point of one fang, so Clint backtracks. “Well, okay, _technically_ someone did. I mean, in the sense of like, punching me and shit. But I started it, so, you know, asking for it.”

 

“Clint,” Phil growls.

 

“These dudes were hasslin’ this lady for rent money, okay?” Clint explains, and maybe it comes out in a whiny kind of tone, but that’s just his voice, okay? “And she was just standing there with her kids, trying to get ‘em to stop throwing her shit out on the street. What was I s'pposed to do, huh?”

 

Phil crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows pointedly. “Handle it without getting yourself hurt in the process.”

 

Clint waves the suggestion-slash-reprimand away because who’s he kidding? Clint can barely manage to do his laundry without injuring himself somehow.

 

“Oh, hey!” he cuts in when Phil looks like he’s about to start in on a lecture. “You know that money you gave me? To find a new place? Good news is, I did. Kind of bad news, I bought the whole building, so now we’re landlords. Also, I think we’ve got a dog now.”

 

Phil’s penetrating gaze finally falls from Clint’s face as he brings up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “This has all the makings of one of your endlessly entertaining, highly improbable stories. Start over at the beginning. I have a feeling I’m going to require all the details.”


	3. In Sickness and in Health

The bed dips right by Clint’s hip, shaking him from a light doze, and he squints open an eye to glare at Phil. “Are you feeling alright?” Phil asks, and while his face is an expert mask of no emotion, his voice is colored with worry. Phil raises a hand and pushes back the sweaty bangs stuck to Clint’s forehead, letting it linger like he’s checking for a fever (as if he’d even be able to tell with how hot Clint always runs compared to Phil).

 

“I’m fine, Phil,” Clint grumbles into his pillow. “Just tired.”

 

“Obviously. You’ve been asleep nearly fourteen hours.”

 

“That long, huh?” Clint rolls over onto his back with a groan. “Good times.”

 

Phil’s hand moves down Clint’s face, fingertips trailing lightly across his cheek and down the column of his neck until he brings it to rest on Clint’s bare chest. “Lounging in bed all day is usually the result of better times,” Phil points out with a suggestively raised eyebrow.

 

Clint grins as Phil brings up his other hand and uses it to lift Clint’s closest arm, leaning in to kiss his way from Clint’s shoulder down to his wrist. The light kisses turn to nibbling and sucking, and Clint hums in pleasure. But then Phil sinks his teeth deep into Clint’s wrist just above his pulse, and the sting jerks him out of sleepy contentment and into grumpy alertness. As soon as Clint feels the telltale retraction of Phil’s fangs pulling back in, he yanks his arm away and hides it under his blanket with the rest of him, moving one leg to knee Phil sharply in the small of his back ‘cause dude’s an asshole.

 

“You’re sick,” Phil accuses even as he’s licking up the few beads of blood trailing down his chin.

 

Clint turns over onto his stomach, kneeing Phil again on the way. “It’s just a cold, geez.”

 

“Have you been to a doctor?” Clint scoffs and doesn’t bother to give more of an answer than that. “Then you don’t know it’s only a cold, not for sure.”

 

“You worry too much.”

 

Phil bends down and insinuates himself under the blanket so that he’s draped over Clint’s back like a cool sheet, his lips pressed to the skin between Clint’s shoulder blades. “Your health is worth worrying over, especially as you refuse to take proper care of yourself.”

 

“That’s what I’ve got you for. ‘Sides, you want me healthy all the time, you should just turn me already.”

 

Phil’s response is both immediate and predictable. “No.”

 

“Oh, come on, Phil,” Clint whines.

 

A hand snakes down suddenly, and Phil pinches his ass. “The looks we already garner on the street are bad enough. I’m not going to be labeled a cradle-robber for all the rest of eternity.”

 

“You kind of are, though. Like, a super cradle-robber,” Clint teases, hiding his reflexive smile in the mattress. “Five hundred years, man. That’s a pretty serious age gap.”

 

Phil snorts, and it’s the only thing Clint’s ever caught him doing that could be termed inelegant. “Still not even close.”

 

“Seriously?” Clint wiggles around until he can flop over, leaving them pressed chest-to-chest. “What, is it higher or lower? I feel like your actual-fact age is something I should be privy to at this point.”

 

Phil folds his arms across Clint’s pecs and rests his chin on them. “You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

 

“You always say that.”

 

“And eventually it will be true.”

 

Clint doesn’t even try to turn his head away when he feels the sneeze building up pressure between his eyes, just spews his germs all over Phil and his stupid immune face.


	4. Interlude

Phil no longer recalls what it is to be human in the technical sense; the sudden shock of pain when a body part clips the edge of a piece of furniture, the sensational relief of that first breath of air after being submerged in icy water for too long, the agony of illness and slow recovery.

 

However, he likes to think that he now better understands everything else it is that make humans such fascinating creatures, from the passion of colorful emotions, both the good and the bad, to the intricacies of human psychology.

 

And Clint–-beautiful, youthful Clint–-is the first human he’s ever met that’s inspired a drive in him to share all the many things he’s learned during his centuries walking the Earth, to invite a human to enjoy eternity by his side.


	5. Down for the Count

Phil finds him in the ER.

 

Clint’s eyes are flicking restlessly around the room (it’s worse now since a nurse pulled a curtain halfway round the bed they set him on) trying to keep his eyes on everything all at once because his ears are fucking useless. All the chaos around him, the beeping monitors and harried staff and crying patients, is dulled to a low, indistinct hum, like when the TV’s still on but the cable box is off–-just noticeable enough to be annoying. Once his eyes land on Phil, though, they stay there, watching him warily as Phil deftly dodges around the bustling nurses.

 

Phil hates hospitals, and he especially hates the ER. Which, you know, is understandable, given the whole vampire thing. It screws with all his senses, and there’s so much fresh blood on display that Phil’s shoulders go tense even when they’re just passing a hospital, never mind when he has to actually step inside of one on Clint’s account.

 

Clint’s waiting for the yelling to start. Well, not that Phil ever _yells_. It’s more that his expression gets all tight, and his eyes go flinty-cold, and everything he says is so carefully pronounced and measured because he’s restraining himself from the actual yelling.

 

Of course, a Phil-lecture is going to do shit-all right now. Clint won’t be able to hear it, and his lip-reading is so out of practice it ain’t even funny. (And _shit_ , he’s gonna have to pick that back up, isn’t he? And the signing. His fingers twitch with a phantom ache, and he pushes away the memory of his chubby kid fingers bumbling through the ASL alphabet.)

 

But when Phil gets to the end of his bed, he doesn’t open his mouth to say anything. His gaze is glued to the side of Clint’s head, and he knows he’s looking like a hot mess right now. The dried blood is an itchy trail all down his neck, and he’s still wearing his blood-stained t-shirt because the ER’s so crowded right now that they haven’t gotten further than giving him an initial exam (though even that quick check-up was enough for the doctor to get that look on her face that meant his prognosis was Not Good).

 

The doc comes back over soon as she notices Phil, and she says something that has Phil nodding even as he keeps his focus locked on Clint. The doc looks Clint’s way too, then, and she smiles all sympathetic at him before motioning for Phil to follow her over to the nurses’ station.

 

Clint’s not sure why they bothered. He can’t fucking _hear them_ even when they’re standing two feet away, and the doc’s gotta know that by now. It’s probably what she’s telling Phil, going over his treatment options, which ain’t worth shit, really.

 

‘Cause Clint knows the implant’s busted, and he remembers quite clearly that one surgeon going through the list of risks with him, the warning that if something ever managed to damage it enough, he wasn’t getting his hearing back, that aids probably wouldn’t even be operable.

 

Phil comes back over a few minutes later, but he still doesn’t try to say anything. He just looks sad.

 

Clint’s not really sure how to deal with that.

 

* * *

 

 

Phil knows sign language because _of course_ he fucking does. And he’s so goddamn patient with Clint all the time now, helping him fill in the rusty gaps in his memory of ASL, and always waiting until he knows he has Clint’s attention before doing anything, and going to pick up Clint’s groceries and takeout without any fuss because Clint refuses to leave his apartment.

 

Clint’s stopped talking for the most part, too. Yeah, so there’s nothing wrong with his vocal chords, but that doesn’t change the fact that he can’t tell how loud he’s talking, and he was never on the quiet side to begin with. Phil’s hearing’s pretty sensitive, like all the rest of his senses, and after the third time he involuntarily flinched at Clint’s volume, Clint just gave up the ghost. Now, if he has to say something out loud, he makes an effort to whisper it. Even then, his throat never feels like he’s making much noise, so Phil’s probably the only one that could hear it anyway.

 

Besides the head trauma that mostly fucked with his hearing, Clint’s other injuries were pretty superficial. His wrist got pretty banged up when he fell on it at one point, but it was just a fracture, so the doc let him get away with just a removable splint instead of a cast, and even that should be fine within another week.

 

Phil tries to ask him about the attack, but Clint doesn’t give him anything to go on. He’ll handle it himself, once he’s back to fighting shape. And up to stepping outside his apartment again.

 

Phil barely leaves his side unless he’s running errands for Clint. He’s sure it’s sweet on some level, but it mostly just frustrates him ‘cause he’d rather be alone. So he sleeps, and he ignores Phil’s attempts at communication more often than not, and he screams himself hoarse with his pillow pulled over his face whenever Phil leaves the apartment.

 

Suffice it to say, he’s not handling things well.

 

* * *

 

 

Phil has spent centuries learning to deal with the pain and grief that go hand-in-hand with mortality, with his own helplessness over having to watch those he cares about suffer.

 

The aftermath of the attack on Clint hits him far harder than he ever anticipated, though. While it’s true that it’s been a while since he met someone he felt enough of a connection with to consider turning, it’s happened multiple times over the course of his long life. And every time, he’s let the relationship run it’s course–-be it short-lived because they chose to remain mortal, or long enough for them to grow apart naturally and move on with their eternal lives separately–-and while it usually left him sad and a bit heartbroken, it’s never gutted him like this before.

 

Just thinking of losing Clint is enough to send him reeling, but this, standing by and watching everything vibrant and special about Clint fade in the wake of his depression, leaves Phil feeling like he’s suffocating, never mind that his body no longer requires air to breathe.

 

He wants _his_ Clint back, but he’s old enough to know that there’s no magical fix for this, that the healing process is slow and riddled with setbacks, and that people don’t come out on the other end of trauma unchanged.

 

Phil still aches with the need to help, to comfort Clint.

 

And so, when Clint rolls over in bed one night, seeking out Phil for once instead of shying away from him, and whispers shakily, “I miss your voice,” well. There is something Phil can do about that.

 

* * *

 

 

Clint scrunches up his nose and tries to swat away whatever is tickling at his neck, but his arms don’t feel like moving apparently. He turns his head and his nose brushes along the shell of an ear, nuzzling the smooth edges as he tries to blearily recall why there’s another head next to his. Before he can make the connection, though, he’s jolted into sudden alertness when a spike of pain hits his neck and steadily spreads to the rest of his body.

 

His heart rate picks up and his eyes snap open, blinking up at the ceiling of his apartment in a blind panic. He tries to move, but his hands are tied down, and there’s a solid weight pressing his whole body into the mattress. He opens his mouth and tries to scream, but he’s not sure if he even manages to make a sound.

 

A hand comes up to cover his mouth, trailing over his lips and then up over his cheek and into his hair, petting the side of his head with firm strokes. He tries to jerk his head away, but moving away from the hand puts him closer to whatever is biting into his neck, and moving away from _that_ just puts him in the hold of that hand.

 

He’s crying, he realizes distantly, the tears falling down his temples to soak into his hairline, and the salty mix of sweat and tears hits his nose sharply.

The pressure at his neck disappears suddenly, and a face moves up into view over his own. It takes him long seconds to clear away the blurry film over his eyes enough to recognize Phil. His lips are too red, and Clint can clearly make out the points of his fangs, and there’s blood dripping down his chin, hitting Clint’s cheek lightly, why–-?

 

Clint thinks he’s talking, babbling really, but Phil moves and slants his arm over Clint’s face, his wrist pressed down on Clint’s mouth. The bitter tang of copper and salt registers on Clint’s tongue, and he’s sucking at the blood oozing from Phil’s wrist without thought, lapping it up hungrily.

 

“– _at’s it, darling. Drink.”_ The words are quiet, distant, but Clint can still make them out without much effort. The voice is comfortingly familiar and yet completely new to him.

 

The more he drinks, the louder the voice gets, softly encouraging and praising him. It makes Clint feel warm inside even as all his body heat seems to abandon him.

 

“ _Oh, my perfect, precious boy. You’re doing so well, but it’s time to stop now.”_

 

Phil’s arm moves away, and Clint can’t help but to chase after it with a whine. His arms are still bound, though, and the rope tying him to the headboard pulls him back. Confused and scared, he tries to call for Phil, but he can’t hear anything come out of his mouth, and he can’t pick up the quiet slide of sheets as Phil moves on the bed, but he must still be there, he was just _talking_ –

 

“ _Clint, calm down. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. I am_ never _going to leave you.”_

 

Clint thinks he gasps out Phil’s name, but the world is still silent around him.

 

“ _Shh, just think it, darling. I’ll hear you, I promise. Just like you’re hearing me.”_ Phil’s voice is soothing and low, but instead of easing Clint’s panic, it worries him more because he can’t hear anything other than Phil’s voice, there’s just a void of too-quiet broken up only when Phil speaks.

 

_“What’s happening?”_

 

There’s a pause, not all that long really, in the grand scheme of things, but plenty long enough for Clint to start yanking at the rope looped around his wrists, desperate to get a hand free so that he can reach out and touch Phil, find out if he’s really here or Clint’s stuck in some kind of nightmare.

 

_“I turned you,”_ Phil finally admits hesitantly _,_ his hand, not the bloody one, coming up to rest lightly on the side of Clint’s neck.

 

_“But–-how can I_ hear you _!?”_ Clint demands.

 

The faint echoes of a chuckle reverberate through Clint’s head, but it sounds more worried than amused. “ _That would be the telepathic bond. Did I fail to mention that bit?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this verse, when a vampire turns a human, they become immortal and from that point on are immune to pretty much everything, but the sire's blood doesn't heal any pre-existing conditions. Because of this, trying to turn a human who was on the verge of death would not save them. If a vampire were to turn someone with a fatal medical condition, like cancer, it would keep them "alive" but they would still have that illness, kind of like how Wade's mutation works.


End file.
